Earth Never Stops
by TheDarkFlygon
Summary: Juggling duties can be a difficult task when you're eighteen and just happen to be a foreman, your city's Gym Leader and, well, just eighteen-year-old. Without you, the city falls apart, no? Well... It's not like the current person fulfilling these roles ever wanted to know before it bestowed upon him. (Partially rewritten since Chap3 came out!)
1. Oreburgh Mines

Oreburgh Mine is Sinnoh's only remaining source of coal and, as such, serves as its main source of electricity alongside Floaroma's countless wind turbines. It contains enough resources for years to come, but what may be more interesting to the casual tourist (or occasional Gym challenger) visiting the region is the rare presence of fossils in its rocks waiting to be discovered under the surface coats of black ore.

Because of its prevalence in Sinnoh's energy field, the mine requires constant functioning. In turn, this means there must be someone who oversees every little thing going on in the mine: the foreman, who is always up, always available, always dependable. In case something is to go wrong, the protocol and ruleset behind the mine's functioning dictates the presence, at all times, of a substitute foreman. However, the noise going around the Oreburgh Mine says otherwise: the substitute is never seen, always clouded in the shadows of the titular foremen's iron health. And what characters these foremen seem to have been ever since the mine opened: someone working in this field would joke that their previous foreman eventually became Canalave City's Gym Leader, a figure the entire region of Sinnoh now holds as a mighty force to reckon with.

The following and current foreman is the youngest they've had yet, at least, according to the official records of the mine's personnel. Byron, this very former foreman, used to bring his son to the mine from time to time since the latter was a child. The guy has almost been there since the beginning of his existence: some of the eldest miners remembered seeing a newly born Roark, eighteen years before. It was as if he was born with a pickaxe in his hands, already excavating fossils when he was in elementary school, under the endeared eyes of other young fathers working there. What was once a way the miners teased Byron, "your son's gonna replace you before we _all_ know it", eventually became reality.

Nobody was really surprised when the boy, the _eighteen-year-old boy_ mind you, was picked by Byron as his successor. It was as if they had always been around Roark, and it had "only" been a bit more than a decade, but the transition felt natural. It didn't mean he didn't remain in the shadow his father, foreman for twenty years before him, to whom the miners were all attached, and some considered him their own father, in a way.

As to the substitute foreman, they are still as absent as they were under Byron's supervision: aside from the one time where he got injured, the miners have always had to refer to him for guidance. As a result, the legendary question "where do you think the sub could be right now?" isn't a real question anymore, having become more of a private joke amongst the miners. Usually, the reply's intellectual level doesn't skyrocket to the seventh sky, more often than not perfectly content with being low and dirtier than the mines, but the intention has never been to be clever about it. It's cheap humour, shared around people with similar senses of what's funny or not.

Nobody could have foretold this would be the way they'd ever notice something was wrong with their respected authority figures.

It's on a warm summery day of early June that Luke asks Tim the legendary question, "where is the sub foreman, right now?". Knowing this is a dare to find the funniest response to it in the least amount of time possible, his colleague replies with the dry and effective "In the former boss's Gym, exactly where he lost to a dumb-looking Gastrodon". Proud of his reply, whose quality is obviously indicated by the laugh Luke represses inside his mouth, Tim shoots his foreman a glance… only to have no response.

"Boss," Tim calls out to him, finding the complete lack of response weird, "ya heard me? Ya dad lost to a _Gastrodon_ of everything. A Gastrodon! How ridiculous is that?"

"Oh, right," the foreman responds with delay, "riiiight. Gastrodon. Canalave Gym." He forces a snicker out of his mouth. "Good one."

"How's the Gym going?" Luke asks. It's been ages since he's taken a break in the Gym. He's pretty sure that, the last time he ate lunch there, his daughter hadn't left on her journey throughout Sinnoh yet.

"It's going… decently, I guess. I broke my latest lose streak yesterday…"

Luke and Tim look at each other, eyes shining with the same aura. The former shoots another look at Roark while the second one orders their Machops to work a bit on their own for now. Once they both thumb up each other, they get closer just so they can speak about stuff their foreman shouldn't hear them talking about; or rather, what they don't want their foreman to hear. It's not like it's that weird of a talking matter, right?

"There's clearly something wrong about him," Luke tells him in a whisper. "He's usually not that quiet."

"He may just be tired, dude," Tim replies, almost shrugging off Luke's worried expression, albeit there's this little something nagging him in the back of his mind. "The boy's also a Gym Leader and whatnot, he's probably just tired of managing two things at once when he's barely an adult."

"I swear he's usually the first to make jokes about how busy his life is. He doesn't even bother with our jokes today!"

"Your dad instincts are playing again. This isn't your daughter we're speaking about, it's the boss. Byron's blood runs in his veins, he's fine."

Tim still looks at their foreman. His own face doesn't seem as confident in his beliefs as before.

"On second thought, he does look a bit weird. He's a bit slow too, no?"

"Right? The sub's not here though, so he can't entirely leave us without having another foreman to make sure it's secure. Not that we wouldn't be able to manage on our own, but y'know, protocols and stuff."

"I don't want to interrupt you on purpose, but I think he's looking this way. Let's get back to work and discuss that after lunch."

"Copy that."

While he mines, Tim stumbles upon what looks like a fossil, a weird one of that. He's never seen one like that before, almost feeling like he's discovered a new species of Pokemon. He's also certain he's just vastly uneducated in the domain (he's a miner, not a scientist), so he shouts his researcher of a husband passing right behind him a glance.

"Hey, Mark, come check out that fossil I've just found! I don't think I've seen one like that before."

The scientist walks to the rock and examines it carefully with his gloves and glasses, fully focused on it, not even bothering to verbally reply to him. Things just got to be like that, sometimes.

"It's a Helix Fossil. They're usually found in Kanto, but there are some in the Underground, although it's rare to find such a big one in a mine like this one."

"What about we tell the boss? I'm sure he's going to _lose it_ once he sees it!"

Mark gently puffs at this remark, a smirk on his lips. "I'll let you get him, then."

Tim doesn't need to be told twice before he leaves to find his foreman, heading to another part altogether of the mine, where the latter is making sure the Machops trained to dig alone do their job correctly and safely. While heading down there, however, he is sure he can hear some weird sounds. Pants? It'd be weird for someone to be working this hard in such a deep part of the mines, otherwise there'd be no reason for these Machops to be trained to extract coal and fossils there. Maybe he's just confused, maybe he just hears sounds that aren't there. He just hopes it's not an Aron ravaging their iron installations.

As always, finding Roark and his signature red hat isn't very difficult. He's the only one wearing such a thing around Oreburgh, as a way to distinguish him from other miners (with their own generic yellow helmets). Tim manages to quickly reach his foreman and the spot where, sure enough, Pokemons are working all around him.

"Boss, I found something real cool! Come check it out!" he screams in echoes, getting the unwanted attention of the tiny horde of Machops.

"What is it…?" a weak, almost faint voice replies to him. For a strange and unknown reason, Roark's helmet is incorrectly put on his head, distinguishably more on the left side than the right, completely going against his policy of making sure everyone was safely equipped and in proper working conditions. Isn't a lack of security and the potential injuries what Roark hates the most? Is he just _that_ confused about everything today?

"I've found a very rare fossil according to Mark, so I thought I should at least tell you so you can check it out later for yourself."

"Works for me… Oh, while you're here, can you check out on the other miners for me a bit? Tell them I'll check up on them once I'm done here…"

"Ya got it, Boss."

"Thank you…"

And just like that, Tim _finally_ gets what Luke meant earlier and feels utterly stupid for not having noticed it all sooner. He really feels like asking him if he's alright, if he needs help with anything; but alas, Tim has a job to fulfil and the boss probably dislikes getting pestered during his work with personal, borderline intimate, questions. Well, it's not like he's had to ask him such a thing before… Once again, the boy's probably just tired and was focused on whatever he was doing. Tim's still a bit hesitant to get to his previous working spot, but he still makes his way there, shaking his head at any intrusive thought this could give him. He's a miner, not a doctor.

Tim almost lets out a yelp of surprise when he feels something grab his leg. He looks at what could possibly be clutching for his pants, unsure of what to make of it: it's a Geodude. He instantly knows this cannot be just any wild Geodude, or even any Geodude used by a fellow miner: this one has a fluorescent band wrapped around its right arm, a sure sign this is Roark's Pokemon without a mistake. He's… not sure if he wants to know why this guy's here and wants to do something with him.

Even with his doubts in mind, Tim kneels down to the Geodude's level.

"What's up, big guy?" (He tries to sound casual, but it sounds fake.)

Geodude points to the back of this section of the mine with its other arm, its face void of its usual anger, replaced with worry, alerted cries coming out of its mouth. What can it possibly be worried for? Let's just say Tim really doesn't want to know now, if he ever wanted to in the first place.

"You want me to follow you there?"

The Geodude jumps around a bit, letting go of his pants, before starting to make its way to where they both come from. Tim, with a shuddering breath, decides to follow: he knows where this is going – how could he not know –, but there's still a pit forming in his stomach. However, there's this little something which keeps growing bigger and bigger that tells him he needs to follow the Geodude because he's the true adult of the situation, the responsible and dependable one and that, if he runs away from the situation, he'll be the scum of the never-stopping earth.

He decides to run back there instead of walking, disregarding one of the essential rules Roark likes to enforce from time to time. On the way there, he notices the specially-trained Machops look panicked, just like the Geodude he's following, if not even more lost than Tim himself is in the situation. He wonders what could have possibly happened to Roark: has he gotten himself injured? Has he found death between the rocks? Arceus, if he has, they're all fucked for the next century. They'll probably all get fired too. And the boy's way too young to die!

He doesn't realize he's crossing fingers as he makes his way there.

The Geodude, unfortunately yet sombrely obviously, brings him where he spoke to his boss barely minutes ago. In the dimly-lit mine, he keeps hearing sounds he shouldn't have been able to listen to coming from a human: pants, maybe a light cough, what eerily sounds like wheezes. The more he advances, the quicker his mind wants to flee, but the quickest is still his legs pressing forward. His mind may be making it up, but he still very much knows this isn't just his imagination anymore.

He stops right in his track as the Geodude goes next to a person lying on the floor, face towards the ground. This… can't be happening. His adult fears do indicate him this cannot be a mere nightmare straight out of Luke's paternal instincts: this is real. As the adult man, the one who knows the mines because he's worked there for the last two decades or so, he is the one running to the lying body in fear of harm having been caused.

"Boss?!" he yells as he kneels next to the other man. "Hey, Boss, this ain't time to sleep! You gotta wake up, this is a freakin' _mine_!"

Tim puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes it off in an attempt to wake him up, in vain. He just knows Roark's alive, which is still very much welcome: he can hear his breathing, even if it's ragged and painful to listen to.

"What the hell am I supposed to do now…?" Tim speaks himself, truly wondering what he can do with an unconscious Roark, the latter's excavation kit, a Geodude and five autonomous Machops around him. Prioritize things, he then thinks, that'd be what Byron (and later on Roark, who's taken that after his father) would have told him in this situation. The pickaxe and the kit can wait but the panicked, disoriented Pokémon who could do some harm if left unattended can't. He just hopes the only idea he has will work…

His foot hits a lone Pokeball, causing it to roll on the floor. As he picks it up, recognizing a particular sticker, he finds a next of five others near it, all marked with a special sticker representing the Coal Badge on them. No mistaking to be had there.

"Geodude, come back, lil' guy," he speaks to himself as he points the ball towards the Pokémon, successfully calling him back. He's surprised that even worked, but he won't complain about this being easier than expected.

"Guys, you too, come back," he then says as he points each ball to the Machop group, once again ending in pure success. He puts everything away in a nearby bag, which he then puts on his shoulders. With that all done, it's one less anxiety on his chest; yet the biggest thorn is still there, firmly planted inside his chest.

It's with a pained look and an ache in his heart that Tim takes his foreman in his arms. The first thing he notices isn't his weight: it's the fact his clothes are damp, if not soaked, not unlike a miner after a long day of hard work, which really doesn't make much sense on face value. However, it's not like he doesn't have an explanation for it: it's been there, sitting in the back of his mind, since this very morning and his conversation with Luke.

The boy still feels incredibly light for a miner, even with age and experience taken into account: it may be him who's pretty strong to begin with, or the boy being a natural lightweight when he should have been a deadweight instead, or just both at the same time. He'll ask for the guys to go and recover the kit later: for now, there's something more urgent than recovering some mining tools, no matter how important they are to the foreman. He gets to his feet and start u-turning to where he came from.

It takes a painstakingly amount of time for him to make his way outside, as Tim feels like he's carrying a statue made from glass when, clearly, he shouldn't. The boy seems so fragile, so vulnerable and frail in the condition he's found himself in, in polar contrast to his father's legendarily unbeatable immune system or even his usual loads of energy. While he has the time to do so, Tim braces himself for everybody else's reactions: he just hopes it's not too bad, otherwise they'll have a ton of issues he can't even begin to imagine, and nobody wants to cause a coal lack in the entire region, not to mention none of them want harm to their foreman, for Arceus's sake!

That's when he realizes Luke's fatherly instincts were right to manifest themselves, this morning. Roark never complains about anything ever, not even about how fatigued he must be after a twelve-hour day spent split between foreman obligations and Leader duties. There's this other thing he tends to forget to, softly ringing in the back of his mind: Byron isn't around anymore. If he isn't mistaken, he's the only family member Roark still has, his mother having died years ago (he cannot remember when exactly, albeit he truly wishes he was good with memorizing dates now), meaning the boy has nobody to rely on if something goes wrong for him. Knowing how he never asks anything from anybody around in fear to bother them… This is resulting in terrible, potentially dangerous failures.

There's a chill going down the forty-year-old's spine.

However, Tim gets to remember it's already noon, and as such lunch time for everyone, when he reaches his usual working spot, exhumed fossil still proudly sitting in the wall. He sighs in relief: there is almost nobody around, all having left to eat, he presumes. Considering who he's carrying like a fireman, the less, the better. Unfortunately, the infirmary is already outside of the mines, meaning he must first walk past everyone else to bring their foreman where someone can say what exactly happened to him.

Luke spots him from the nearby entrance, first going to wave him a hand before freezing in his spot. A moment later, he runs to his colleague, face displaying anything but joy; and while Tim couldn't exactly describe what's on there with fancy words, he can surely say his friend looks utterly horrified.

"What the hell happened to him?!" Luke screams, eyes fixated on their unconscious foreman.

"I… don't know. I was telling him about the fossil discovery I had made, but as I left his Geodude grabbed my leg and made me follow it and, when I arrived, he was already knocked out… We'll discuss it later, man, we don't have time to waste, I have to bring him to the infirmary before there's anything else getting wrong with him."

Luke first nods, before putting a hand on his chin, opening his eyes wide, then changes his mind.

"Wait a sec, Tim. Can I check something real quick?"

Tim hesitates for a moment, just wanting to walk as quickly as possible to the nearest doctor, only to realize he knows what his friend is about to do, something which would answer their questions as worried semi-substitute dads. He then nods to his friend, a silent agreement like they're used to give each other, and Luke rises the foreman's helmet a little, putting the naked back of his hand on his forehead before muffling a hissing sound.

"That's what I thought. He's running one hell of a fever."

"I… kind of saw it coming, not gonna lie. I'm gonna bring him to Joy, just warn the others, 'kay? She'll take care of that better than we ever could."

"Roger that."

Tim isn't walking at the speed of a Dunsparce, now: no, he's running for someone else's life to their infirmary, silently apologizing to the boy for shaking him up this badly, hoping there's their usual doctor there. He can trust Joy to be there, right? She's always been there for them, generation after generation, she'll be there for their foreman too. She _must_ be there. That's one unusual case for them all, he knows, so he hopes his hardest it'll all be fine by the end of the day. For this, they all need her to be there, as she's always been. Today can't be much different on that, right?

Honestly, he's afraid shitless when he kicks the door to knock, his hands obviously unavailable to do so. The pink-haired woman opens the door and she looks like she's going to scold the hell out of him for kicking the door (he wishes he had had another way to get her attention to said door), eyebrows frowned, arms crossed.

"Hello, Timothy. Can I know what makes you behave like a Growlithe all of a…" she starts to tell him before her voice comes to a halt.

As soon as she sees his face, then lowers her eyes, her face takes a sharp turn, snarky grin going all the way down.

"My Arceus, this isn't what I expected when I came to work today…" She opens the door wider, inviting him to enter. "Put him on the nearest bed, I'll see what I can do."

He executes her orders and, soon enough, they're both in the room, looking over the third person in the bed. After taking off the red helmet, he lets her examine his boss, more anxious than he's been in ages, as she silently works on him. The air is heavy between them, with nothing but breathing sounds and medical tools getting used to fill the deafening silence. Tim isn't the kind of get anxious, he's always been laid back compared to Mark and Luke, on the same level as Byron in terms of seeing life on the good side, living in the present.

"So, what's the problem?" he asks, voice trembling, trying his best to fill in the void acerbating his anxieties.

"It seems like exhaustion and overwork have caught up to him," she replies in a much calmer tone than his. "He should be all right as long as he rests for a few days."

"But…"

"Before you say it," her tone changes to something more… solemn. "I know Roark has a very busy life and probably can't afford many break days, especially since the summer rush is about to start. _However_ , I can't let him go back to work when he's pushed himself to illness like this."

"Then, what are we supposed to do?"

"We'll have to see that as soon as possible. I'll have to call the substitute foreman by myself to justify his suddenly needed presence… Please go take your break, Timothy. Just tell the other miners about the situation, will you?"

"Sure thing. See ya later."

"See you."

He gets up from his chair, but as he leaves, he feels like there's something he still needs to tell her.

"Oh, Doctor, before I forget… Thank you."

She giggles back.

"No need to thank me, I'm just doing my job. Now go!"

Despite this lighter banter, Tim still can't shake the situation off his head as he walks to his friends and workmates, lost in thoughts, hoping someone finds a solution real fast unless they all want to get in some serious troubles. The less they see the director of Fuego Incorporated, the better, especially when Roark isn't here to discuss the matter with his own superiors.

Well… This is what he'd think would come to his mind first. Miners have this collective mindset, sometimes, when it comes to survival as a group and work conditions. In the end, it's silly of him to focus on such things like organization-related affairs he can't understand for his own sake. Deep down, he knows he's far more concerned for the little guy and his sickness than for money and profit and things of this calibre. They're just not concerned for such ideas: persons are whom they worry about.

Tim sits next to Mark and unpacks his lunch as he summarizes the situation, a work obviously already started by Luke, considering the faces of his workmates. Usually, they'd be trying to make each other laugh, to throw a bit of playful shade and good-willed banter each other's way; but this isn't how things are today. Everyone is strangely quiet, minds overrun by foreign thoughts. In this situation, two friends look at each other, the same idea coming to their heads at the same time.

The summery air of early June around them all suddenly feels heavy.


	2. The Noise of the World

The light, slowly coming back to him, burns his eyes as he comes to, or wake up, he isn't really sure. The one thing he does know with certainty is that his head is pounding, as if someone was constantly hitting it with a hammer. Did he hit it against a wall? Maybe. Maybe not. If that's the case, he hit a large part of it, and maybe its insides. He doesn't even remember possibly doing that before landing wherever he is. Everything's foggy, really.

His vision is still a bit blurry: he taps his face, realizes his hand is somehow naked (doesn't he usually wear gloves, even when fighting Trainers in the Gym? When did he take these off?), his muscles ache (so, is this the end of a work day? That's the one rational explanation he has for everything, and that's when not taking in account his pounding head), he doesn't have his glasses on. Oh, that makes sense. He may have lost his glasses when falling, which would then be when he hurt his head. That… makes sense. He supposes. Maybe. (Everything is still terribly unclear. Is he concussed? Arceus, he hopes he isn't concussed…).

The last thing he _vaguely_ remembers doing is working in the mines with the Machops, yet it doesn't feel like he's in a mine… His sight may be blurry and very unfocused, but he can still tell mines are supposed to be brown, grey or black, not this pristine white that's attacking his eyes with the rage of a thousand suns. Where is he, actually? He doesn't have his glasses, nor his gloves, and after checking, he doesn't even have his helmet. Someone had to take that off from his hands and face, so here comes the million-Pokédollar question: what happened, exactly? Where is he, and why?

He feels… drained. His entire body aches, so it's probably the end of the day, which would make sense, but… he doesn't remember battling the Trainers trying to get the Coal Badge, something impossible because this is the summer rush starting. Is he usually that oblivious and forgetful? He knew he was tired, but geez, that's a whole other level of exhaustion he's discovering himself in. What hour is it, on second thought? The artificial lights above his head don't give it out easily, it could be any time of the day. His unclear vision really doesn't help with the issue…

Holding his head, numbed hands trying to shield his naked eyes from the lights, he tries sitting up, only to get overtaken by dizziness, then by a painful urge to cough. His nose feels a bit stuffy too, as in he has difficulties breathing through his nose, but that's nothing compared to that violent Purugly trying to claw its way out of his throat. Except for his cough, and the bed cringing, it's a complete silence. This can't be the mine, nor the Gym, and it doesn't feel like home. Where can be possibly be, and why does he remember nothing of significance?

He hears faint footsteps, coming from afar, only to notice his hearing is muffled. There is no nightstand to smash in order to find his glasses, or his helmet, or anything. Why are there so much confusing and painful things going on all of a sudden? Why is everything so undistinguishable?

"I see that you've woken up," says a feminine voice (he's not sure if the voice is familiar to him, but he feels like he's heard it before), which he attributes to the footsteps. "How are you feeling, Roark?"

"W-where am I…?" he asks, realizing the voice belongs to the mine's Doctor Joy (took him long enough). This can't be good.

"In the infirmary. I should have expected you to feel disoriented and confused after what happened to you back in the mine. Your helmet protected you from potentially getting a concussion, there's that already."

"What happened…? I'm afraid I don't understand what's going on…"

His voice is groggy and painful to use, matching how atrocious it is to bear right now. He'll have to spare it if he doesn't want to go voiceless by the end of the day, if end of the day it's not. (It can't be the end of the day, or else he'd already be home and without Joy hovering over him).

She hands him something, whose nature he guesses when his fingers come in contact with it: his precious glasses. He senses a small smile creep up on his mouth as he puts them on, finally seeing somewhat clearly. That feels so much better already, albeit there's some parts of his vision remaining unfocused (he doesn't remember his myopia doing that). She sits next to him on a stool he hasn't noticed the presence until now, putting the case she was holding on the ground.

"Timothy found you unconscious in the mine, all thanks to your Geodude. High chances are that you collapsed while watching over Pokemons."

He wants to yell, but instead, he just speaks in a whisper.

"Collapse…?! I probably just knocked my head on something…"

"Then how do you explain _this_?"

Joy gets a thermometer out of her case, cleans it and inserts it inside his mouth as he's about to ask what he's supposed to explain. The fact it instantly beeps scares him more than it should. She gets it out, looks at it and points it to him. It reads something like thirty-nine…

" _This_. As far as I'm concerned, knocking your head on a rock doesn't make you spike a fever."

"Huh… I didn't know I had a fever…" (Which isn't a lie).

"Considering you don't remember what happened before you blacked out, I can't say I'm surprised to see that you weren't aware that you were ill."

"Didn't you say I collapsed…? This isn't the same as being ill, right…?" (That'd make sense, though…).

"Overworking yourself can make you sick, which you did. It seems like you've developed a cough too."

He doesn't comment, at least out loud. He wishes he could at least ask her what she would do if she had a Gym and a mine to keep running (at least, on his scale), and the consumed time that meant, but she'd tell him to give up on either of them, and he doesn't want to do that, especially when his father entrusted him with both of these obligations.

"Lucky for us all, your substitute is available and will take care of the mine during your recovery."

Her voice stops, and she looks at him with anger in her eyes. If his throat wasn't hurting like an Infernape had put fire to it, he would gulp, at least audibly so. He doesn't know what he could have done wrong to deserve such a stare, and even if he doesn't, he immediately wants to apologize for whatever it is.

"Do you know irresponsible of you that was to come to work in such a condition?!"

"W-what…?!"

He doesn't know if he expected or didn't expect to be scolded like a naughty child having broken the vase of his parents. In all cases, a way to properly react to it is beyond him: that's not what he expected to be scolded for.

He expected to be punished for having more or less failed at his foreman responsibilities. That what made the most sense to him: these were professional responsibilities in one of the most important places of Sinnoh as a region. He wasn't supposed to black out, he was supposed to keep an eye over otherwise Trainer-less Pokemons (and subordinate miners). What if one or more of them had run free into the mine or, worse, the city? What if someone got injured when he was unconscious and had complications because of it. Safety concerns have been compromised because of him, and for that he must have deserved to be fired or downgraded.

She's still scolding him for being irresponsible, that's true, but instead she's scolding him for an entirely different kind of irresponsibility. He compromised his own safety, after all, since he hadn't warned anybody he was going to lose consciousness. What if Timothy hadn't found him? What if his Geodude hadn't found and brought anyone else to where he was? The more questions come to his mind about it, the worst it gets. He must have scared everyone out of their minds, that's for sure. Ah, he'll have to apologize to his fellow miners…

"You're this mine's foreman, Roark! The least you can do is pay attention to yourself! I thought you were the level-headed, down-to-Earth son. Your father acted by instinct, but the miners entrust you with their own safety, right?"

"R-right… But that means someone got injured, no?"

His voice's shaking, just like he's shivering. Is this his fever or is it that cold in there? He's hot and cold at the same time, feeling rapidly switching between two extremes.

"Fortunately, no one got injured, not even you. You're quite lucky to not have done so, since you were probably holding tools. But you're side-tracking me there, young man!"

"T-then what's the issue, exactly…?"

She sighs, visibly exasperated by all the questions he's asking her. His brain must be slower than usual for him to be this confused about everything today.

"You really don't see it, don't you? You _collapsed_! You're supposed to have everyone's safety in check, isn't it? You're not giving a good example to your fellow miners there, Roark. Why did you not tell anyone you were feeling under the weather?"

Time to focus what little memories he had of his early hours of the day.

"I… I didn't feel that bad this morning… Just a bit more tired than usual…"

She has suspicious eyes over him, squinted at him, then gets out a stethoscope from her case, putting around her neck.

"Enough talking. It's about time I exactly know what's wrong, don't you think?"

He simply nods. He can feel his energy, or whatever's left it, dwindle with each passing minute, with each word he listens and speaks.

The examination doesn't last for long, at least objectively, he's certain. Heartbeats here, breathing cycles there, blood pressure, the usual shticks. Well, as usual as someone who never gets sick can get used to (he'll have to come back on that last statement). All the tools she uses on him are cold against his skin, prompting him to shiver every time he gets touched, making him wish this would just end already.

It's over before he can fall asleep (again?), though she needs to support him multiple times from falling over on himself. He didn't know he was that tired, seriously, that's impressive exhaustion he's got there. He's not sure he's ever felt this weak in his life before today and how humiliating this should be, yet he doesn't even bat an eye at it. He's too tired to care about that, frankly.

"I confirm my earlier diagnosis: this is mostly overexertion, coupled with a summer cold. Nothing you can't get rid off with plenty of rest."

Here comes the touchy topic: his overfilled schedule. His father warned him when he appointed him foreman and, by the way, Gym Leader: he'd quickly get overwhelmed without a proper way to organize himself.

Joy sighs again, this time sporting a small, saddened smile. Or at least he thinks it is? He's never been amazing at reading through people and social cues, just enough to socialize properly (although he still enjoys strolling around the Underground alone or with his team more than casual small talk).

"I know what's going through your mind right now. You've got a lot of responsibilities to shoulder now that your father has left for Canalave. You don't have much time for yourself outside of the Gym and the mine, we all know this, but you can't afford to exhaust yourself like this, okay? I know I must sound like your mother, but you really scared all of us."

"I should go see them, I need to explain myself before I let anything happen."

"I'm afraid you can't. For now, you're on bedrest."

He doesn't have the energy to really contest the decision, as much as it pains him. He just wishes he could apologize in person to everyone else, but alas, this doesn't seem to be in his plans for today. He lies back in bed, trying not to get too frustrated with himself (he's already upset enough).

"Fine…"

She gives him a small smile as she gets further from the bed.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have someone to tell about this, after I've taken care of the Pokémon part of this infirmary…"

"If it's not too indiscreet of me," he coughs out, "who is this?"

"None other than your father, obviously."

Oh Arceus, everything but _that_. His father worrying over him is the last thing they both need in their lives right now. His father is the last person he wants to be aware of what happened today and what this all means to him and the city and the mine. His father is going to demote him before he can even cough in his general direction. He needs to prevent that from happening, as much as possible.

"My dad has other responsibilities; you shouldn't bother him with that… I'll be fine on my own…"

He both means it and uses his father's busy schedule between the Gym and training on Iron Island as an excuse. He just doesn't want him to know, for a bunch of reasons, mainly revolving around getting taught like a naughty child not to let himself wither away like that. Showing him a fossil won't be enough to get away from the situation, he's acutely aware of that.

"I'm not letting you go back home alone."

He can feel sweat pearling down his temples, and yet unable to tell if it's out of anxiety or because of his fever. This is no good. It hasn't been good for a while.

"Listen, Roark. I'm sure you don't want anyone to worry for you, because you're the first one to think this is a minor thing not deserving all this attention and panic, and that you have a ton of things to think about and do, that everybody has something else to do than getting concerned for this. Thing is, it's not minor. This is serious, and if you don't give yourself time to rest, you'll keep collapsing until nobody will be able to get you back. Once is more than enough, don't you think?"

She's so right, it's almost painful for him to admit it. He just didn't realize until the moment he's half-sitting half-lying in the infirmary, with a foggy memory and aching limbs, how ridiculously exhausting his way of living has been. He needs to find a better way to balance it out between his two responsibilities and his own well-being… But that'll have to wait. For now, he can feel everything biting him out of seemingly nowhere.

The doctor walks to a neighbour room, where he knows there is a videocall device, leaving him all on his own to rethink all his life choices. He still has a ton of questions about the situation, a never-ending well of interrogations opening right under his feet: where are the Pokemons that were with him? What happened to them? How is everyone else doing? Are they aware of what happened? What is his father going to say?

A small knock at the door is followed by a familiar face coming in: Tim. Roark doesn't exactly know whether to be happy about seeing him or being slightly scared about what discussion may happen. Honestly, if he listened to himself and only to himself, he would sleep until the world ended, and his eyes are closing on their own, but it's probably better to reassure his fellow miner about his predicament. As such, he instead tries to smile at him, but that's not working either: it just feels fake and almost like a counterfeit.

"Boss, you're ok?" Tim asks, in a strangely low, hushed-down voice. He's never been the noisiest of the miners, sure, but this is a bit strange coming from him. He'd have expected Mark to adopt this tone, not his husband.

"I guess so, somewhat… It's not much, really, I'll just be unavailable for a while, I guess..."

Tim takes a seat on the stool, forearms resting on his lap.

"You scared us to no end, dude! At least, you're just sick, right? Not gonna lie, it's gonna be hard for a while without you around, but we'll manage."

He feels like he owes them an apology. He's dragging everyone with him because he's been stupid.

"About that… Sorry for scaring everyone. I… didn't feel too bad this morning, but it seems like I underestimated how tired I was. How are the others?"

"They're doing alright, especially now that we all know you're safe and sound. Don't worry for us, you're the unwell here. We just wanted to check up on you, and they sent me to do so."

"Can I ask you something, Tim…?"

His voice sounds as tired as he is on the inside. He simply cannot hide the fact he's fatigued to the point of needing an entire day off to simply sleep the exhaustion away.

"Yeah?"

"Do you have any idea as to what happened back then? I… I don't remember anything…"

Tim blinks in surprise. Why he seems that surprised is beyond his understanding, at least for now.

"Well, huh… I found a very rare Helix fossil while mining, so I felt like I had to inform you, which I did. You seemed pretty out of it, but told me you would check it up later and you asked me to then check up on the others for you. I said yes, and started to make my way to my working spot again, until your Geodude clutched my leg and brought me back to you. That's when I found you on the floor, with the Machops looking panicked about it. I guess you just passed out while I had my back turned."

"I see…"

"The more I think about it," Tim continues, "the more obvious it gets that you weren't doing so hot. You were slow, barely reacting to whatever was around you, as if you were lost in thought you know? That was pretty weird."

Somehow, the fact his fellow miners could notice he wasn't doing well felt good. He didn't expect them to know so much about him as to be able to tell all of this from him just by how different he was to the habits; but it once again made sense from A to Z, as they have sometimes known him since he was born.

"So this is how things were, huh… Guess I'll have to be more careful next time…"

He didn't expect a huge coughing fit to get out of his mouth. It burns, it parches his entire throat in scalding acid, irritating everything in its course.

"Hey, kiddo, you're sure you're alright? What do you have, exactly?"

"If I'm not wrong," he rasps out, breathless, "a summer cold… and an overwork fever of sorts…"

"It sounds like you're having a rough time over here. Wouldn't have guessed, honestly."

A short silence follows suit.

"Anyway, I should let you rest now, the doctor's insisted on that after all."

Tim gets up.

"Get well soon, kiddo, and don't worry for us, okay?"

"Got it. See you soon…"

Tim then leaves the room, not looking behind him, not a word uttered. Silence overcomes the small room of the infirmary yet again, no footsteps to be heard, until the foreman hears a familiar sound coming from the neighbour room: that of a videocall device.

The sweat he feels pearling down his temples surely isn't due to his condition: it's about to get tougher from now on. What did she wait for to call his father, anyway?


	3. Iron in the Blood

"Good job, ya're a strong one! Here's ya' Mine Badge, young gal, you've deserved it! You're gettin' closer to the League, y'know? Good luck on your journey!"

Byron, with his signature large grin on his face, a shovel in one hand and a badge in the other, gives the local insignia won after a well-fought battle with him. It's been his routine for a while: he has no force to prove, nothing he owes to the League, so he just has fun with the local candidates to the Mine Badge. Nothing more than that, has never been that deep.

He watches the girl leave the Gym, putting away the badge inside a small case with a ribbon on it (seems like she's into Contests too) and smiling softly to her battered Magmar, before he decides to make his way the Gym's healing station for his entirely knocked-out team. (Not that he fights young Trainers and aspiring Champions with his actual long-term companions: it's a bunch of pals trained for this very purpose he must let recover).

While he waits for his team to be healed, a Trainer of the Gym runs to him, clutching his unattached helmet so it doesn't fall off his head. He's about to light-heartedly tease the guy with a familiar "hey buddy, take care of your safety!", but keeps it to himself. Instead, he just smiles, arms crossed.

"Mr Byron, (God, can't they just call him by his name once and for all in this Gym?) there's a call for you!" he yells in his general direction, reaching him in a hurry.

"A call, for me? From where?"

"Oreburgh Mine. (Oh?) They specifically called for you, so we couldn't take care of it ourselves. (Ah.)"

Huh, that's weird. And annoying. He dislikes very much getting bothered during a nice day of Gym battles, seeing young Trainers try their best to win his badge in so many different manners, with such duverse teams and backstories, it's fascinating! Why did anyone need his specific attention on such days? Couldn't they wait for his day off (which is… Sunday evening. He doesn't like lying around and doing nothing aside from this one time in the week).

He looks around, trying to find an excuse. "Any remainin' challenger for the day?", he asks, just in case.

"It doesn't seem like so, sir."

Byron sighs. He dislikes getting phone calls, but what can he do against responsibilities and duties he's been entrusted with? Yeah, nothing; so he makes up his mind, albeit still bothered.

"I'll get it then."

He walks to the Gym's videocall device, still looking around in an attempt to escape it (but for good reasons). It better be worth the time he could have spent in battles, training or mining for fossils. He answers the oncoming call with a harsh press on a button, whose source indeed is Oreburgh Mine. Why is left in the air, unanswered: he can only hope he'll be told about that soon enough.

"Byron of Canalave Gym, what is it?"

Joy's familiar face (even if it's a face he hasn't seen in a while) comes on the screen, and instantly things are taking a sharper turn in his mind. It's unusual for him to get a call from the mine's doctor. His skin starts itching.

"Hello, Mr Byron. This is Dr Joy, of Oreburgh Mine. I know you're a tight schedule, so I'll make it quick."

She takes a deep breath, visibly scared of what she's about to tell him. His impatience gradually turns into anticipation, melting yet remaining and dampening his entire mind.

"I'm… afraid we'll need a sub foreman for the days to come."

She immediately buries her head into her hands, as if this wasn't what she meant to say. Nevertheless, it picks his interest immediately: why would she tell him this? That's kind of miscellaneous information to give him now that his life is in Canalave.

He's about to pop the question her when he comes to a realization. Oh, Arceus, that's fishy at best and absolutely horrid at worst.

"Why do y'all need the sub foreman in the first place?!"

There's a feeling he doesn't like in the slightest blossoming in his chest.

"I meant to say, your son is currently unable to assure both his Gym and foreman responsibilities."

"What do ya mean? What happened to him?!"

Surrounding, resting workers and Trainers of the Gym are looking in his direction, mostly bearing pained looks. Even a challenger, who has just arrived there to battle against some workers for experience and that he can see in the corner of his eye, seems puzzled and worried all the same. The little guy probably didn't expect to hear that as soon as he entered the building.

"Sir," he asks to the worker next to him, "what's wrong with the Leader?"

"It seems like his son got himself in trouble. You must know him, if you're here to challenge Byron. He's Oreburgh's Gym Leader."

The boy goes quiet and simply looks in the videocall's direction. This may be time to think of a strategy, or to go back to the Centre because there's no way a distressed father is going to challenge him fairly. At least, that's what Byron hopes, deep down. He's in no state to fight someone unless he unleashes his growing worries and frustration at them, and well… That's not something he'd want to inflict on innocent souls.

The pink-haired woman seems a bit scared by the father's screaming, hands flying in front of her face when his voice rises unexpectedly high in the span of a moment, before she proceeds telling him, "we need to take care of his responsibilities while he's incapacitated", vague and unsatisfying. His face distorts as soon as he hears what it's all about, clutching fists. He doesn't need to hear more than that.

"I've gotta go to Oreburgh as soon as possible. Thanks for tellin' me, have a nice day."

He hangs out the phone without waiting for an answer, almost drops his shovel and runs out the Gym. He has no time to lose on any conversation or useless small talk: his heart is screaming at him to do something about it, to discover what it's all about by himself, because nobody will tell him better than himself what's happened and how to fix what will be broken before his eyes.

The challenger attempts to call for the Leader, before the same worker he asked before puts a hand on his shoulder.

"It seems like the Leader's got to take care of something. You'll have to come back later, sorry."

Yet an agent finds the time to reach him just in time, right outside the Gym, and he rolls his eyes while retaining a deep, frustrated sigh of disappointment.

"Sir, where are you going? There's a new challenger that's waiting for you, you can't just leave like that without any explanation!"

He has zero time for battles right now, or anything in the city, really, so he just turns to the man and screams his reply at him.

"I've got urgent stuff to attend in Oreburgh! Tell them to come back when I'll be back, I dunno how long, I'll try to call the Gym or somethin' to inform y'all. Goodbye!"

He leaves the now-dumbfounded referee behind as he rushes far, far away from the Gym, and jumps into his truck, setting sail to Oreburgh, which is a couple hours away from Canalave, crossing the sea separating it from Jubilife City.

While driving, he gets to think about anything but the Gym and fossils. Actually, the only thing he can think of right now is happened in Oreburgh. That's all he wants to know right now, because that scares him much more than he thought it would. Is this what they call adult fears? Is this what his fellow miners wanted to warn him about once his son took on his legacy in their city of origin? If that's so, then their fears were confirmed, there's no doubt about it, and he's bound to feel terrible about it sooner or later. He's never been great at channelling his anxieties, even with the sharper turns his life has taken over the years.

It's still a novelty to him because, as it stands and as far as he's concerned, Roark's never caused him much trouble. He's always been a good kid, with a passion for fossils just like his dad, but he's starting to think he may have overestimated his son's maturity and ability to multitask. He legitimately thought Roark, mature beyond his years, could handle it, and he needed to become his own person outside of his father's shadow; and yet, there he is, driving to Oreburgh because his son couldn't handle the endeavours of wearing two hats at once.

Or perhaps he's overestimated the toll managing the mines and the Gym was to anyone, really. He's perhaps never realized until today how heavy and fatiguing this must be on people other than him. Heh, turns out he's terrible at estimating stuff. Not a big scoop to him.

When he arrives in the familiar landscapes of the City of Energy, beloved dumps in view, Byron just rushes to the mine. On the way there, he gets saluted by miners and inhabitants, some asking what's brought him back to Oreburgh in the middle of the week, others why he seems in such a hurry. In any case, he doesn't have the time to answer them: he just replies "hello" or "hi", smiles at his former workmates, hoping it doesn't come off as fake (it's partly faked, though).

He hasn't been in this infirmary much, barely even recognizing the place it sits in. The last time he had, it was for a sprained wrist from making a wrong move with it, and that was it really. He dislikes that place, because it's always the place of catastrophes and injuries, but he can't bring himself to dislike their doctor or her job. It's more of the fact he wishes it wasn't needed that he doesn't like it per say: if injuries didn't exist, if sicknesses weren't a thing, the world would be a better place, everyone knows that. Infirmaries wouldn't be needed, doctors wouldn't have to save lives on a daily basis, and he wouldn't be there with Arceus knew what to worry about.

Clearly, he would have never foreseen himself coming back to Oreburgh when he woke up this morning.

He knocks on the door, trying to retain his anger in. Anger at what, he doesn't exactly know. Maybe at himself, for more or less letting this all happen, indirectly. Maybe at his own son, for not handling things the way he should have had, by not listening enough to his father's advice. He gets a "yes" and enters, opens (almost busts it, his strength out of control) the door to the room with the bed, the doctor standing there and, in said bed, his own son.

"Hello again, Mr Byron. Thank you very much for coming so quickly," she says, almost bowing down to him, hair trying to get out of her bun.

"Frankly, comin' there is the least of my issues. Mind lettin' me talk to my son for a bit? One-on-one?"

"Of course not."

She leaves the room right after agreeing to his request, not dropping a word, disappearing in the corridor while he goes to sit on the stool next to the bed. Roark is looking away, preferring watching the wall to his left than his own rather apparently, looking oddly naked now that there's nothing left hiding his face, as his helmet is out of his reach (Byron has no idea where it could be, it's just… not there). It seems like he knew he had it coming, as if he had foreseen his father coming to Oreburgh just because he messed up _that_ badly.

Neither of them talks, letting a heavy silence settle in the infirmary, thick and uncomfortable. Honestly, and that's much to his surprise, Byron doesn't have an idea as to what he should tell his son. He'd have usually scolded him, maybe making fun of his awful decisions to show him what it's all about and where he seriously goofed up, but he has to take in account something: his son is ill. He knows, for a fact because that's a thing he got from his parents, that it needs a huge amount of exhaustion for either of them to fall sick.

"So… You know why I'm here, right?" Byron asks with little conviction, almost expecting no answer to his question.

"…Yes" is all he gets, and even then, he can tell something: his son's voice is awful. He sounds like he's inhaled an entire pack of coal, or smoked it, maybe spent the last ten days in the mine without ever going out to breathe in fresher air than oxygen covered in coal dust. Coughing obviously ensues, louder than he'd have ever thought he could announce his presence. It heavily bothers Byron, who's trying to guess what went wrong and fix the mess, that his son won't even look at him. On the other hand, however, he can't possibly yell at him right now: making him flinch will make the situation even worse for both of them. As such, he just breathes in, breathes out, and clutches his fists.

"Roark. Look at me. Don't run away from the situation."

Somehow, that manages to make the boy turn his face towards him, and Byron gets to learn one more thing he really, _really_ never wanted to see: not only does his child sound awful, but he has an appearance to match. He can't remember him looking so pale before, and even behind his glasses, he can see the deepest dark rings he has even seen, almost as black as coal ore. His reddened, puffed out eyes aren't the greatest sign he's seen either. Technically, nothing about this mess makes him any reassured…

But that feeling is nothing compared to what's in his chest: an overwhelming pain, pinching his heart, making his veins tremble from time to time. That's sickening, in a way: Byron has seen countless injured miners, in all flavours of hurts, from bruises to broken and bleeding limbs, but he had never prepared himself to see his own son in such a bad shape, albeit it seems to be nothing of the injury kind, thank goodness gracious.

Roark lowers his glaze, an attempt at smiling creeping on his face.

"I… probably look terrible… Sorry for making you come here, I know you're busy and stuff…"

"That's one thing ya got from ya mom, huh. Ya're always apologizin' for a yes or a no. Ya ain't apologizin' for the right reasons, young man, trust your pa."

He can't tell if Roark is blinking because he's surprised, or just because his eyes are shutting down on their own. It's like he's talking to a machine whose battery is between one and zero remaining percent. Heh, more contrast compared to the last time they've seen each other.

"W-what…?"

"C'mon, I'm sure Joy's scolded you enough about that. That's not to us that ya should apologize. Ya'll have a ton of those to say to all the Trainers ya won't battle for a week. The only person ya should feel sorry for is yaself."

Roark's utterly lost face illustrates how much he's confused about anything his father can possibly be telling him at the moment. Byron guesses he should be clearer: after all, he's speaking to…

Wait. He must check something, real quick, it's going to take a moment or two. In a swift move, he takes off his glove and, like he did so few times (but not as long ago as one would think, sadly), takes his son's temperature from his hand. The lack of a reaction to how cold his fingers must feel is unsurprising, but what's under his palm is still a red flag.

"That's what I thought! Ya're burnin' up, son! What made ya think it was a good idea to go work with such a fever?!"

"I… I swear I wasn't feeling that badly this morning, I…"

Without any forewarning, Roark breaks down in a coughing fit, clearly pained by the entire ordeal. As a father, but clearly also as a human being capable of empathy, Byron can't help but feel like they shouldn't have that conversation right now, not on how to deal with a mine and a Gym at the same time. The pathetic attempts at defying paternal orders and scolds, when they're in a disagreement over what consists in the right apology for the right reasons, just feel forced out, unnatural, ungenuine. They've never butted heads in contexts where the son is just unable to properly respond. It's like fighting against a poisoned Pokemon and pretending like it's a fair battle where both parties are in the same condition.

"I get it, ya're in no state to endure scolds, ain't ya? I should've guessed before that ya weren't goin' to respond back much. Y'know I ain't much into moral speeches and all, so lemme just give ya a piece of my mind, 'kay?"

It's been a long, long time since he had to be calm and somewhat wise, to show an example through speaking and not just through acting. He's never been a man of speeches, especially compared to his own son, but it'll have to do. Maybe he's overestimated the age of eighteen too, after all.

"I can't blame ya for comin' to work today, 'cause I'm sure ya just wanted to make ya job and be a good foreman and whatnot (Byron was just not going to admit he'd have done the same, if he was in his son's shoes at the graceful age of eighteen, or at least not today). Thing is, ya're only human, Roark. If ya're sick, ya're sick, that's it. Ya're allowed to call in, y'know? Tryin' to hide stuff just makes you end up in that kind of situation, and then everyone worries about ya and ya dad comes to you to scold ya."

His son's mouth opens up, wanting to reply, but Byron dismisses this with a single move of his hand.

"I know, ya're full of what ifs. I know about the missin' sub joke, I'm the one who started it. Don't think the mine absolutely needs ya. Of course our role's important, but ya're more of a burden than anything if ya can't properly fill that position for a reason or the other."

He wishes his son would just smile, even a little, even if for a second, but his face's still too grim to his taste. If the entire foreman situation isn't the issue, then why does he seem to be bummed down? Why can't he cheer up his own kid?

"Why the long face? What's botherin' ya so badly?"

"You… You're really sure I can handle this…?

"C'mon, ya really want to go down that route? Ya've been in these mines and that Gym since ya were a baby. It ain't 'cause ya messed up once that ya're gonna mess up all the time. That's the first incident that happens under ya watch, ya ain't gonna fool me. Ya just need to lie down and let other people do stuff for ya while ya go on and profit of ya prime days, that's all. See? Not hard."

"How… how did you even handle all of this, dad? I… I feel like I barely have time to do everything need, much less want…"

"That's simple. I gave myself free time and entrusted some right-arm people! Ya don't need to handle everythin' on ya own. No wonder why ya collapsed, if ya didn't realize that."

Despite the fact he knows he's quite rough, and that people call his way of showing he cares "tough love", Byron can't help but feel like he messed up terribly. The expression on his son's face is miserable, especially since it's flushed, and that clearly wasn't what he had in mind. He knew he had to tell him why what he did was counterproductive, but not to the point where Roark felt the need to ask him with a throat-scratching voice "are you sure you shouldn't have entrusted me with such a thing?".

Arceus, he really was bad with words, wasn't he?

The thing making it even worse than it already is that, yeah, his son wasn't his first choice, a couple months ago. He wanted Riley to be Oreburgh's next Gym Leader, and Roark knew this. Perhaps asking him on the pick wasn't a good idea, until Riley insisted he shouldn't be the one to hold the Leader position, at least not when he got asked about it. Byron didn't think much of it until now, when he's now scared it's going to get used the wrong way. He has to change the topic to something happier, or something alike, or else he's not sure if he'll be able to go back to Canalave tonight.

He probably won't be in Canalave by the time the sun sets, what's he even thinking?

Silence falls in the room yet again. They're probably both too deep into their position to solve things: it's just that, this time, the son doesn't have the energy necessary to counter the father. That's sad, really, and it pains him not to be able to do anything to make it any better. Words truly have given up on him, and so at the worst time too.

"I think I'll stay for a few days in Oreburgh. Mind hostin' me?" he asks, trying to give his best smile.

"W-what…?! D-dad, I thought you were busy, and there must be challengers for you, and…"

The distress is a small change from the ashamed long face, a change he'll gladly take if that means this is all getting somewhere.

"I think we need to catch up on each other, it's been a while since we last trained together. I'm also certain ya can't take care of yaself on ya own right now."

A small snicker escapes Roark's mouth.

"Yeah…"

He looks away.

"Huh, by the way, dad… Thanks for today… I'm… not very talkative, so… I hope you weren't speaking to a wall…"

"It's nothi'! I'm ya dad, that's my job to care for ya, even when ya flew away on ya own!"

The worst will be to call Canalave Gym and explain what's exactly what keeps him in Oreburgh for the time being. But hey, he's the Leader, he's free to decide when the Gym opens or not, right?


	4. Unknown Mother Goose

His mother died when he was four-year-old.

Despite this obvious fact, he has still happened to see her from time to time. Well, more and more rarely should he add, but the matter of fact is that he still happens to see her, hear her sometimes. People would either tell him he's crazy or believe it simply because ghosts exist for some and don't for others, so he has only ever told his father about that. As always, Dad was a pragmatist with a perception of the world firmly grounded in reality: "No, son, sorry, but ya must have imagined things!"

And yet, every time he's sick, he sees his mother in his feverish dazes. Perhaps that's why Dad has never believed him. He's never seen Mom again, not after she left them, and he's never been sick since then (or so he thinks? He doesn't remember doing the kind of things other children with a single parent did when said parent was ill). On another hand, his father has been right to be critical of these claims: on every single time, without a single skip in this pattern ever since that fateful day, his mother has appeared before his eyes until now, Roark was ill, and most likely spending the day withering away in bed. That's a reason enough to doubt the validity of someone's impressions and recollections of events, and, well… Even if he's always wanted to believe that, he's inherited the sceptical part of his father's down-to-Earth spirit, he also believes it's a symptom he always gets.

What makes it stranger is that he finished mourning her a decade ago.

He doesn't remember having fallen asleep when he creaks an eye open in his own flat. As much as he wishes that was the sign a terrible, terrible nightmare finished, it's actually the opposite way around: his throat is still burning, his head is still aching with every pulse of his heart, moving is difficult and speaking is the biggest turn-off he's faced in his entire life (perhaps not as much as going to a funeral, sure thing, but… Ah, morbid thoughts, get out!). He can only guess someone's brought him there, considering his legs are barely responsive and feel much more like jelly trying to slip out from its container than, well, actual limbs he's supposed to use to walk himself somewhere.

He's not surprised to see his late mother's soft features float over him, brown hair floating in the air as if defying gravity, surrounded by a pastel yellow halo. He used to be astonished and find an explanation, but in his fatigue and fever-induced comatose state, finding an answer seems like a chore and he's much more open to just believe it is actually Mom's ghost guarding over him than a hallucination. Feels better too.

"Ah… I knew there was something wrong with you this morning…"

Her voice echoes and sounds far away, yet he can hear it perfectly. It doesn't hurt his ears as much as Dad's attempts at scolding him earlier today, as if transgressing the layer separating physical from spiritual.

"You must have known pulling almost all-nighters for your homework or training was going to weaken you badly… Please, my dear, don't push yourself this badly anymore…"

Mom may as well have always been his self-consciousness speaking to him in the one way where he cannot say anything back. He can't speak with the dead.

"If only I could do something about it before it was too late…"

His attention gets caught in something else. He hears noise coming from his kitchen, making him wonder if he hasn't let Geodude roam around before leaving this morning, before remembering this can't be the case. Mom's apparition vanishes as soon as it came, making him believe it could really have been his consciousness speaking to him directly instead of letting him do whatever stupid things he has chosen to do to arrive there. Maybe it's just the fever messing with his brain. Yeah… Must be the fever, that's what they always say.

(The truth is that Roark doesn't remember having been that sick before. May have been the fever on that too.)

"Ya feelin' any better?" a familiar, raspy voice asks from what he guesses is the incriminated kitchen, gently stabbing at his headache. Yeah… The almost-all-nighters weren't a good idea, but he's only just realizing at which extent that goes.

Visuals soon accompany the voice as his father came into view, dressed in stuff he didn't even remember having ever owned (that's a lot of things he's not remembering today, crap). He's not sure whether or not he's hallucinating seeing Byron, the iron-headed Leader of Canalave and former foreman, dressed in an pink frilly apron (to be fair, if he's not wrong, he got it after losing a bet with friends in high school), but he knows this is amusing to behold. A shame his cough forbids him from laughing out loud. Instead, he just tries to sit up, supporting himself on his elbows.

"Gee, you still sound terrible son. That ain't an issue though, cuz your dad's made ya somethin' against that!"

He's… not sure if he wants that "something", since he knows his father's cuisine has never been… the greatest, to put it that way. With all due respect, of course…

"Ah, huh… Thanks Dad…"

Even after clearing his throat, his voice sounds dishonestly low and hurts to get out of there. Having always been fairly effeminate from head to toes, naturally high-pitched voice included, he's simply not used to sounding "like a man", like his own father would have genes worked otherwise and would have he not inherited most of his mother's traits. Not that he minds now, but younger… that was a whole other can of worms.

It's unusual for him to be home this early to the point he thinks what Dad has prepared for him is supposed to serve as brunch. Usually, he'd leave his place at around six or seven in the morning to spend some time training his team members and come back once Gym and mine duties were all cleared, as in around seven to nine in the evening. Long days of work, obviously, but he usually felt fine after a night of sleep. Well, that, and the fact he tries to slip in some schoolwork from time to time at work, just so he doesn't fall too behind on studying archaeology…

And where did all that effort and scheduling bring him? Here. In the most embarrassing and vulnerable spot he's ever found himself in as far as he can get reminded about.

Still blurry-eyed from not having his glasses on (he's squinting real hard at his father right now), he watches as best as he can the other man in the flat pull up a chair and sit down next to the bed. Would he have not known better, would he have not recognized the colour of his walls, he may have thought he was back in the family's original house, to which Byron still hangs on as a memory despite neither of them having set foot in there since the former moved to Canalave a year ago.

Honestly, Roark still avoids looking at it when he goes to work or to the Gym. That's the part of him who's never finished fully accepting his mother was dead, that part of him who still sees his father crying for days after the faithful minute where he vaguely heard a blur-faced doctor tell Dad in a hushed voice "our deepest apologies, she won't make it". That house brings back more negative memories than positives now that he's moved on, well, pretends to have moved on entirely for his and his dad's sakes. Life goes on: that's what Mom told him the last time he saw her alive.

"Ya searchin' for these?"

An unclear hand puts his trusty pair right in front of him, which he picks with a feeble and trembling hand, finally clearing his view as his second elbow gives in and he falls back on his pillow. It smells like laundry and it's strangely dry: he could have sworn it was wetter than that this morning… which was had been a hint in itself all along, hadn't it.

"Ah, yeah… Thanks…"

"I'm not very talkative today," huh? Perhaps should have added that he's usually not very chatty like his parents are or were. He's the kind to give silent signs unless the situation calls for it, even if he doesn't mind having a conversation with the miners or the trainers. In all truth, he just like having alone time where his companions just train with each other while he observes, silently.

Or maybe he's just sick and he doesn't like to have people fret over him. He doesn't understand himself very much today, he doubts anyone else who isn't stuck with his mind would get anything out of his boggled nerves drowning in their sweat.

Dad crosses his arms before putting on his forehead some kind of wet fabric. Doesn't matter what it is, just feels good. He should stop asking himself so many questions when he has no idea how to answer to them or even find that answer to begin with. He scratches the back of his head, fingers brushing against spiky hair. They really don't look like each other, when he stares at his own parent like that and doesn't find anything in him that he'd find in himself…

"Seriously, kid, ya scared the shit outta me… Scratch that, ya scared the shit outta _everyone_ around, even Joy wasn't sure how to tell me about that. I've got a ton of things I'd like to tell ya about, but it'd go through your head and pass right through, so instead, I'll just… be a dad or somethin'. Been a while since I've had to do that."

An apology burns his tongue, but he keeps it in because otherwise his throat is going to set itself on fire.

"I know that look on ya face as if I made ya. Ya about to tell me ya's sorry for what happened and troublin' me from my day of work again as if my own son didn't matter to me more than giving out a badge to some ambitious fellas. Stop questionin' yourself all the time and talk ya feelings out more if ya need it."

Before he can even find something to respond back, Dad hands him a mug.

"Be careful, it's hot. Just don't drop it onto ya lap, 'kay? Would hate to clean it!"

Heh. That's kinda funny. Typical dad humour, he supposes.

As a precaution measure, Roark looks into the mug, unsure of the nature of the liquid inside. Again, he lived with his father for long enough to know his subpar skills in the cooking department, so he cannot be at least a bit suspicious of these contents. He feels dumb (and cruel) about himself when he realizes, as if struck with the arrow of realizations, that it's probably just hot milk, a classic brew he's definitely had no negative experience with before today, so he should be all good with it.

"Don't look at it as if I just served ya a cup of Seviper poison! Geez, kids these days, I swear…"

"S-sorry, just that…"

Dad snickers upon hearing that. "Know what ya going to say. Don't. I'm aware of that already. It's the one thing I can make properly without burning down ya entire place."

Sweeter memories surface in his mind. Candid childhood times where he'd have to spend the day away in bed, splashing around like a Magikarp on land, and where his dad would try to see him as often as possible despite his obligations. The older he got, the less time they'd see each other; but it was fine, all fine, because he was a mature boy and he knew adults were always busy. He'd be a little envious of him, for sure: he'd have loved to be able to go outside, do things, see his friends, discover new things. Spending a day in bed, indoors, sucked and he could have thought of a thousand better things than having to take a free day of rest.

Eighteen-year-old Roark stuck in bed would have liked to have a discussion with his younger self on that topic for sure.

Sure enough, the contents of the cup aren't toxic, or even tasting like death itself had graced his taste buds. It's weird to see himself in this situation again, when he swore, a couple months ago, he'd be able to manage everything and himself all at once with no issue. Maybe that was why Dad was so pissed at him earlier: he's always been taught not to break promises and not make ones that he can't keep. Had he been too overconfident, back there? Maybe.

"Huh, Dad, can I ask you something…?" He coughs again, even despite the warmth of the beverage calming down the pain. It's gone from having glass paper vocal cords to having sore and worn-out ones, which is still an improvement despite the poorness of the description and what it entails for him.

"Don't make it too philosophical, we both ain't here for that."

"Why did… I scare everyone out, exactly?"

"Huh…"

The sceptical look on his father's face has never been reassuring, but this time around, he's scared he's asked the one question too much.

"I… I mean… Yeah, I've got why I upset you and all the others… But scared…?"

"Ya really are confused about that ain't cha?"

"…Kind of."

Even as his son, Roark can't deny he's always seen his father partially as Byron of Oreburgh, then of Canalave, the tough foreman who never hesitates to act upon his words and fix situations with his own two fists and loud mouth. That's maybe why he's always been so reluctant to ask him about anything beyond Pokémon-related matters and common interests, never taking on the role of a potential teacher seriously: if they but head, he never tries to take the full initiative. Today is no exception: even if the question has already dripped from his own mind, the puddle terrifies him from what it could soon reflect.

"Not gonna lie to ya, I'm not one-hundred-percent sure why the others got scared, ain't in their minds. They probably got afraid ya got crushed under a rock or could have would ya have landed on the wrong spot, or gotten a concussion by hittin' ya head on a rock, anythin' really. Ya always get scared for people ya care about, but I'm not teachin' ya anything here."

Known information, as stated. Growing around some of the miners who are currently still working there and having visited Dad at work a few times before helps him explain to himself this is normal and that, yeah, people still work for their workmates because he does care for his fellow miners too (why would he be so keen on enforcing security norms otherwise?).

"I'm surprised ya really have no idea why I got so scared. Hell, how did you ya notice that? I was _terrified_ for ya! (His father clenches his fists). Not to be sentimental or anythin', ain't there for that either, but it reminded me of your mom and, huh… Can't say I wanna remember that. Don't think I need to refresh ya on what happened to her all these years ago."

He sighs and rolls his eyes.

"Forget it, we'll talk about that once ya're actually operational. Get some rest first, call me if ya need anything, I'll be around."

The son watches the father walk away from the chair in frustration, still haunted by confusions and plagued by questions, but his throbbing headache punching his temples tell him to postpone that to later. For now, he should just slip into his bed, hide away from the world in his blankets like a child and, for a moment, forget about the world around him that never stops.

Maybe the time never comes to a halt for the collective, but as far as he's concerned, he's going to consider today's an exception.


End file.
